The Remnants
by xlYoshii
Summary: If leaving is forgetting and running is an expression of fear, then tell me: which did they choose? Why did they choose?
1. Chapter 1

He jerked awake, heart pounding and sweat pouring from his every pore. _Not again,_ he thought. _Please not again._ His pleas were ignored as a sudden lance of pain erupted in his upper spine, sapping the breath from his lungs as he could only gasp in pain. The fire spread in a viral wave, surging through his body and pulsing through his muscles. They could not withstand the siege and began to give, contracting slightly before increasing in scale, in tempo. His consciousness began to go white as his body gave way to the seemingly virulent tide of spasms and pain, evolving into agony. Sadistic contortions wreaked havoc on his body as he cried out with sounds akin to a dying animal. He could no longer perceive where he was, who he was; the only thing that accompanied him was the eternal torment. After what seemed like an age the fire began to wither and die, leaving him with a few kicks and spasms to remind him of its presence. A few prolonged seconds later, it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him sore and shaken. He wiped the slime from the corners of his mouth and lurched for the bathroom, knowing what would come next. His will forced his body to the toilet, where he emptied what bile and bilge remained in his stomach. He managed to push himself up and away, a few heaves lingering. Weak, tired, tormented. This is how every morning seemingly began.

 _October 29_ _th_ _, that lovely day._ Construction was halted because of a supplier getting the orders confused and tempers were running high. Over four days and they could hardly do anything; the bosses were talking of laying people off because they were losing money. While he had proven himself to be driven and efficient, he was still considered green after four months of work. Therefore, he was the bitch-boy for the rest of the crew. Insults, tedious errands, ridiculous and redundant tasks; he took it all in a day's work. Add to that the cold weather that often left him frozen, and his temper was beginning to flare. It didn't help that the forecasts were predicting snow in a matter of days, meaning a dead site at the end of the season. Overall, the tension was almost enough to cut the steel they needed four days ago. So when he came into work that day, he could hardly act surprised at the commotion that greeted him.

"Goddammit, Kyle, don't give me this crap again!" Boss chewing someone out on site? Someone screwed up, badly. He walked around the side of the office trailer and found Kyle and John, both looking livid and shouting at each other. It only took seconds for Kyle to spot him and begin the shit-flinging. "Well, if a certain _someone_ had arranged everything like I told him to, maybe we wouldn't be low on supplies!" John whipped his head around and stormed over to Ulrich, halting inches away. "What is he talking about?" The question was more of a forceful growl than anything.

Kyle was a not only arrogant, but he was one of the local slackers. The only thing that kept him from getting fired was that he was generally at work. Ever since he joined the crew, Kyle had been looking for someone else to pin his blunders on. _Guess who the new guy is,_ thought Ulrich.

"I picked up the compressor and I arranged for the stock to be delivered this morning. Either they're running late or _someone's_ talking shit." He made sure to look at Kyle pointedly as he talked. Kyle's face ignited as he made for Ulrich but John pushed him back. "Enough! We'll sort this out later, for now just get to moving what we have. Got it?"

Kyle spat on the ground and looked pointedly at Ulrich before storming away. John turned back to him and sighed. "Ulrich, how in the hell is it that Kyle has such a hard-on for you? It's like you slept with his girlfriend or something." Ulrich smiled. "Wait, does he actually have one? Color me impressed." John simply chuckled and walked back to his office, shaking his head slightly.

Early morning lurched into midday, Ulrich running to and from various places acting more like a general assistant than a construction worker. He laughed at the crass jokes, retorted when they messed with him. It was like any other day, but it seemed like things were a bit lesser, as if they were going easy on him. _Who knows? Maybe I'm finally settling in,_ he thought. As he drained his coffee, Ulrich turned and got back to cutting the woodstock when he heard a blaring truck horn. He looked up and sighed with relief; the truck carrying the rest of the steel had arrived. It pulled into the lot and halted, waiting for the lift. He saw Kyle spit again and walk over to the forklift, but it seemed like he hid something on his face. What was up with him today? Something had him more agitated than usual. _Oh well._ Ulrich shrugged as he dropped the cut stock into a nearby pile. _Not exactly my problem._

A couple hours later, he was sure that Kyle was a little bit irate. Without a word, he dropped another bundle of lumber in front of Ulrich and sped off. As the minutes passed, Kyle stacked two, three, four piles of stock around him. He was still making cuts over an hour and a half later. Time continued to flow as he marked the cuts and chopped, again and again in an unending rhythm. Finally, he had all of the stock cut and piled. Ulrich began walking away as the lumber was hauled away to their various piles, awaiting their purpose. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he locked the saw and began walking to his truck. _Time for lunch._ He walked back to his Ford and pulled out a wrapped sandwich and a soda from the cooler behind his seat. As he ate, he noted just how odd Kyle was acting. He was a slacker by nature, but he seemed to move with determination today. Finishing the sandwich, he cracked open a can of Coke and drank, surveying the site.

Ulrich was a part of a local construction company, having moved to America after a couple lingering months in France. His father was dead now, not that his death hadn't been earned. He had arrived here and found construction work a little late into the season, just in time for the contract for this office complex. They were at least making progress on the third floor, with the insulation and wiring almost finished on the second. Once the steel finally arrived they could begin work on the storage annex. Overall, it seemed like the tension was beginning to thin out. He tossed the garbage on the back seat and began walking back, locking his truck as he moved. Of course, nothing's ever easy.

A lightning bolt shot through his spine and made him go limp, darkness rapidly swallowing his vision. Everything was a blur, incoherent except for the agony. The ambulance, the endless corridors, the swathes of people around him. The pain seemed unending, acting as the only constant through whatever hell he was in. It was as if he were underwater, struggling to hold his breath as he fought and tried to surface to no avail. Suddenly, the force holding him underwater was gone and he surged to the surface with a scream. He was aware of a room, of the blinding agony that screamed with him, resonating through every fiber of his being. Hands held him down, trying to place him at ease but were drowned out by the coursing agony. A pinch in his arm and darkness embraced him once more. The pain slowly released its grip and retreated further into the limitless dark, a rumbling growl echoing as it did so. He could finally breathe, think, rest.

He swam, league upon league passing as he pushed through the endless ocean. It was silent except for the rippling motion of the tide and a slight wind. Storm clouds stretched to blanket the horizon when he tried to float. Energy seemed like a pointless word as he flowed with this ocean, never once stopping to catch his breath or alleviate the soreness within his limbs. Time lost its meaning as well, with no end to the prelude of the storm in sight. Despite the hints of logic that infected his mind, such as panic and curiosity, he felt a sense of tranquility. Calm that could soothe a feral beast, peace that was undefinable within society. It was almost like heaven.

All too soon, just as abruptly as it began, Ulrich heard voices.

"…Keep a close eye on him and don't hesitate to alert someone if his condition changes."

He opened his eyes to a brightly-lit room. The pain thrived once again, but subdued. Ulrich's question was answered as the room spun to the right, revealing a pump connected to his IV line. _Morphine?_ He went to move and felt the lance threaten him, prodding his upper spine. He then noticed a doctor and nurse chatting in front of his bed. They turned and immediately moved to his side. "Mister Stern, back from the dead?" The doctor chortled and was greeted with a stern look from the nurse. "Er, right, might not be the best time for jokes. Mister Stern, can you hear me? Can you understand me?" The doctor pulled a pen light from his coat and shined it in his eyes, blinding him. With effort, he managed to brush away the light. _It feels like my arm is made of concrete,_ he thought groggily. His head felt like it was wrapped in pillows. "Where am I?"

"Well, you're capable of speech and you can move your arm. That's astounding, given what you've endured." The doctor straightened and moved to a computer on the left counter. Typing in a password, he turned back to Ulrich. "My name is Isaac McKinney, I'm one of the local neurologists here at the Unversity of Colorado Hospital. You are in Denver, Colorado and have been for around four days."

The conversation blurred, muffled by what he could only attribute to shock. The morphine didn't help, either. Ulrich vaguely registered the doctor mention potential paralysis, a partially severed spinal cord, over 21 hours in neurosurgery. He could barely breathe, feeling his mind tip over the edge. _Is this real?_ He could barely make out their silhouettes moving towards him as darkness ripped him away from his nightmare.

Over the next four weeks, Ulrich could almost never get a good night's sleep. He was restless yet exhausted. If it wasn't for the pain medication or sedatives he thought he might never sleep. They guided him through basic therapy, testing his motion and reaction time. While painful at points, at least he wasn't paralyzed. They brought in electrodes, massaging his muscles to counter the atrophy. Eventually, he was cleared for the therapy floor. It helped that he could work his arms and legs, he just had to keep a flat back and take it slow. However, just as things crashed down around him before, it seemed that fate had other plans. The night that he got back from a paced workout, Ulrich had his first episode. He was crowded by enough nurses and doctors to smother him, making it all too easy to vomit after the seizure subsided. Two days of muscle relaxants and tests created a new theory. While the physical exertion hadn't directly damaged anything, it was believed that the energy and stimulation that coursed through the afflicted area had created a kind of short circuit. It could either happen with heavy work or from nothing at all; they couldn't determine what triggered it. After yet another week without an episode, they hesitantly allowed Ulrich to be released.

 _A mug and an hour of agony._ That's what he gained with his break once he got home. His hands still shook and he was so light-headed that he could barely make it through the front door. It was the end of November, and snow had fallen for most of the time that he was in the hospital. He walked up the sidewalk and almost fell, earning him a jab with the lance in his back. His hands shook enough to make unlocking the front door a task worthy of five minutes. He couldn't even pour coffee. The kitchen floor splattered with the ashen liquid as he tilted the pot. He grit his teeth and raised the mug to his lips, straining all the while. The mug shook violently and sent hot coffee everywhere, burning his hands and face. He screamed and savagely hurled the mug at the wall. The mug shattered brilliantly, leaving behind a splash of Folger's and a cracked section of drywall. As if in punishment for the loss, a chunk of rock hit him in the back, like someone had crushed his spine. He collapsed, his body giving way to violent seizure. The beast poked its head from the void and roared in his ears, taking pleasure in his suffering. The pain faded eventually, growling and leaving him with a few tremors as a memento. Tears blurred his vision as he faded away. _Please just tell me I'm in hell._

After a week that dragged along for what felt like a month, Ulrich came to a decision and slowly packed up his things, beginning preparations to move back to France. He dialed John's number and was rewarded with it going straight to voicemail. "Hey John, it's me. I've decided to move back for a while. Here's to hoping that I'll get well soon. Take care." He gave no indication when he would be back, and he intended to keep it that way. _Will I ever?_

He called an international shipping company and arranged for his things to be shipped to his new apartment. Setting a box down on the kitchen counter to pack up the dishware, he glanced over at the hole in the wall. It was a bit of an uncomfortable call to his landlord, but he still got back a decent amount of his deposit. The deposit and pay from the job were what funded the move, with a bit left over for the first two months if he couldn't find work. John had even pulled some strings and gave him Kyle's contract fee. When questioned, John had simply sighed. "Where he's going," he grumbled. "He won't be needing that money anytime soon." Placing the last of the plates in the box, Ulrich taped the box shut and went back into the living room, thinking. He didn't know why, but France was where he felt at home. Ever since his middle school days, despite everything, it felt like that was where he belonged. His thoughts strayed to _them_ , but he shoved them away. He didn't need them, not now or ever again.

The flight passed without incident, just exhaustion. A blonde stewardess tried hitting on him but gave up at the blatant lack of interest. He simply smiled and asked if they had anything to drink. The doctor told him not to drink alcohol until the pain medication was out of his system. But hey, she also practically yelled at him when he told her what he planned to do. He smirked at the thought as he downed the small vial of Smirnoff, pulling the cap off another. What did it matter, anyways? Paralyzed, handicapped, dead; all or none of them could happen and the doctors knew as much as he did. If his condition did deteriorate, he may as well be relatively comfortable, right?

Now that he was here, in his cold, barren apartment, he almost laughed at the stupid idea that he would be comfortable here. What little comfort he had in this place had long since faded, sealed with his mother slamming the door in his face and refusing to even talk to him. It seemed like most of the magic, most of the _comfort_ of the place had been held in _them._ Sure, he had managed to find a little bit of work to distract him, but now he had nobody. Whether in the U.S or in France, there was still nothing for him but survival. This only fueled his newfound pessimism and negativity, strengthening the void within.

The past three weeks had not seen a lessening of his symptoms; if anything, they appeared to be growing steadily worse over time. His daily routine had grown to include vicious episodes first thing in the morning. The only form of healing was the massive scar on his back, still not entirely healed. Slowly but surely, his nerve was failing. _I'm a fucking epileptic_. _I've lost the last person that I talked to, who was my own mother. I can't even have a peaceful night of sleep._ He looked up to see his ghastly reflection, thoughts of dread and hopelessness continuing to plague him. Faded color, a face that was all but emaciated, eyes devoid of light. He already looked half-dead. _What's the point of resisting?_ He shook his head and forced himself up, turned on the shower and hopping in. He waited until the water burned.

He lumbered out of the bathroom a half-hour later, steam drifting in his wake, his skin reddened.

Despite having all of his belongings, the apartment looked abandoned. Thick drapes barred light from the apartment, a small, plain table sat in the midst of the room with a sofa a few feet away. The worn leather couch faced a wall, where a 30" flatscreen sat on a shelf that looked like it came from IKEA. The TV sat forgotten, the power cord unplugged and tossed over the frame. The queen-sized mattress sat in the corner of the apartment, resting on the creaky wooden floor. Despite having enough money to replace everything, he saw little point. While it was a large one-room apartment, a thin layer of dust had coated most of the features. Only a few pictures hung from the walls, the rest remaining untouched in their boxes. He rarely stayed in his apartment for the day, usually coming in late and falling asleep before he could get into pajamas. If he spent no time here and had nobody over, then why bother with appearances?

Walking over to the closet, he tried to think of something basic yet nice. A button-up shirt with a pair of trousers? _Why not_ _?_ He smirked as he pulled on the clothes, gingerly pulling a light green shirt over his head. His mind continued to drift as he buttoned the thin-striped shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Even the colors seemed bland, like someone had turned down the saturation on reality. That was how most of his days went, where everything was cast in shades of gray. His co-workers, his boss, the young woman that always talked to him as he passed the dainty shop on his way home; he couldn't even conjure interest or care for the conversations, and he could barely feign either. He sighed and closed the closet, wishing he could trap his mind inside.

Ulrich walked over to the kitchen and lifted the pot from the burner, pouring a stream of black liquid into a mug. A 50/50 mix of decaf and regular did seem to help with the frequency and severity of his little escapades into agony, so that became his new daily brew. Taking a sip, he grimaced. _Still tastes nasty,_ he thought. A dull _clunk_ echoed through the deserted space as he sat the mug on the counter and moved to a table next to the door.

He pulled open the drawer and began withdrawing items from among its contents. A folding knife, a lighter, his keys, a keycard. After loading up, he pulled out two bottles of pills. Each large enough to fit in his fist comfortably, he took a pill from both and tossed them back, swallowing them with a large _gulp_. He tossed the bottles back into the drawer and pulled out one last item: a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Picturing the doctor's reaction at him smoking made him chuckled to himself, but was greeted with an unwelcome surge of images. _Their_ faces, _their_ reactions. He halted dead in his tracks. _Get a hold of yourself._ Ulrich grit his teeth and pulled on a leather jacket, walking out of his apartment and towards the glaring morning light.

Until a shadow blocked the doorway. He looked up and scowled.

"What are you doing here?"

 _Trying to get back into the swing of things, let's see if I can stick with it this time._

 _I was debating about continuing this chapter, but I thought it was long enough for a brief intro._

 _-JJA_


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing that she could do.

Her friend lay in her arms, sharp gasps dominating all she heard and everything within. The river of life flowed from her abdomen, forming a crimson lake that merged with the others around her. The lance made of ribbed steel had ripped through her, pushing in the surrounding flesh, tugging what lay within, out. She soon would be alone in this ocean of blood and decay. As if on cue, her friend gave one last heave before going limp. A hoarse rasp escaped her lips, almost as if questioning why. Her soul left her eyes, leaving nothing but a hollow container made of meat and sinew. Fresh tears escaped her eyes as she held her close, cries of agony tearing through her as the blood of Emily enveloped her. The moment seemed to stretch before her, the silence echoing her heart. Her hearing slowly returned, showing her more and more of the chaos. Screams and crying that were not her own pierced the air, like a torn chorus singing a song of lament. She was not the only one that was now alone.

Hands grabbed her shoulders, gently pulling her away. Emily's corpse slid from her arms, eased in part by the lubrication provided from the fresh blood. The newfound wide angle provided her with an expanded view of the surrounding bodies, showing flayed bone and charred flesh, crushed body parts and strewn chunks of meat. She noted how suppressed her hearing was. The explosion probably made her partially deaf. However, concern was nowhere to be found. On any other day it would have been comforting, how numb she felt. She barely noticed the detective talking to her, the officer taking her home, stumbling up the steps. She blinked and found herself in the living room, covered in darkness save for the streetlight's glow through the still-open curtains. Even lumbering over to the windows and tugging the curtains closed seemed foreign, meaningless. Walking into the bathroom, she didn't even bother flicking the lightswitch before falling to her knees.

Retching was closely followed by heaving, as if her body itself was trying to expel the newfound corrosion. Minutes later, her chest barely moving with shallow breathing, she doubted that it would be that simple. She pushed herself up onto shaking knees and looked down with horror. Emily's blood still covered her, caked on her arms and staining her blouse with a deeo shade of red. She used the last of her strength to rip her clothes off in a frenzy, tossing them away savagely. Smears of blood clung to her body, challenging her to wash them away. She tumbled into the bathtub, turning on the shower with shaking hands. Water flowed from the showerhead, the heat rising with each second until scalding. Steam quickly engulfed the room and obscured her vision. Or was it the tears?

She jerked awake to the sound of her phone. It sounded muffled but reverberated off of the tile, a tune that she recognized. A clip from Above and Beyond, calm yet energizing. It even mentioned a love of caffeine. Feeling the water against her skin, cold as ice, soothed her aching muscles, heart included. Stepping out of the shower only rewarded her with the frigid air and frozen tile, thanks to the lack of a heater. Despite the cold, she didn't even shiver as she walked to the blood-soaked pile and dug out her phone. Wiping it off with a sleeve, she answered the call.

"Miss Ishiyama, my name is detective Sinclaire. I was wondering if I could talk to you later today?" Yumi paused for a moment. Brief flashes of the night before poked at her as she stared at the bloody clothes. "Sure, when and where?"

The detective answered almost immediately, as if in a rush. "Would 3:00 pm at the police station be okay?"

Yumi placed the clothes reverently in the trash, her own twisted burial, pulling her focus forwards. "Yes, that will be fine. See you then." She hung up and sighed before walking into her bedroom.

* * *

Yumi sat in the lobby, lost in the noise of it all. The monotonous ringing of the station phones, the rushed relaying of orders and directions, the rustling of paper and _clack_ of keyboards. It seemed like the victims were not the only ones shaken by the bombing. The scene mirrored the horror from last night, drawing a surge of memory from her fractured mind. The gore, the crash and clap of the blast as it tore through the air. Yumi fought to maintain her composure, succeeding only in it welling up. Glancing down the line of people that sat on the bench with her, she found a woman with tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Next to the woman sat a child, wearing a school uniform and a blank stare. He couldn't have been more than eight. A single tear ran down his cheek as his eyes continued to project the same hollow stare.

She turned away, her soul screaming as she shoved the agony deeper into the void. She was not the only one in pain, and now wasn't the time to lose her head. A detective stepped out of a distant office, making his way towards her. He was fairly tall and bulky, wearing a dark suit and dress shoes, all topped with a head of chocolate brown hair that was trimmed and styled. At least, she assumed it would be given that his hair was unkept with strands straying from their proper place. He had long since shed his jacket in favor of rolled up sleeves and a loose tie. Despite being generally disheveled, he still kept a calm and open demeanor. _It's no wonder that he was one of the interviewers,_ she thought.

He held out his hand. "Tim Sinclaire, we spoke on the phone?" She took it with a loose grip and a forced smile. He gave her a slight smile that was lined with exhaustion. "Thank you for coming in. My office is this way." Walking around the various desks was akin to walking through a staging area for war; people going back and forth in the name of cooperation, tense conversations either face-to-face or over the phone, muttered or vehement swearing following any mention of the media. She was almost grateful for the muffled silence of the man's office.

As she thought, his suit jacket lay in a spare chair, either in haste or general carelessness. She turned and found a desk piled high with various reports and documents. Statistics and crime scene photos were hastily shoved under a mound of papers. Not well enough, she thought bitterly. The man cleared his throat, drawing her eyes towards him. Sinclaire gestered to the empty chair in front of his desk. "If you would sit, I think we should get this over with as quick as we can. Wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

Her body walked the familiar streets to her apartment, but her mind was far from the city. She had taken the tram on her way there, but she thought that a walk was exactly what she needed right now. The interview took only ten minutes but somehow stretched for much longer. Images of the bombing, the gore, Emily's smile, the boy on the bench; they all swirled down the drain, dragging her brain with them. It felt like she couldn't think at all, as if her body kept moving while her heart had stopped. No care, no self-awareness, nothing. The only things that embraced her now was the feeling of decay. She couldn't hear anything, the familiar deafness pushing away her world. The only thing that broke the silence was a woman's scream.

Yumi froze, wondering if it was her imagination. A cry for help seconds later brought affirmation of its validity. It came from the second level of a parking garage across the street. Doubt had fled, despair had vanished. All that existed was the moment and purpose. Yumi sprinted across the street and into the parking garage, narrowly avoiding the various cars and their angry horns. Spotting the staircase, ripping open the door and sprinting up the steps, all of it was akin to watching a movie. It was her body, but control was nowhere to be found. All that mattered was finding the source of that scream. Seconds later, she found it. A man had backed a woman into a corner, holding a knife to her throat. Yumi halted and looked at her face, shock enveloping her. It looked like Emily. It was Emily. She sprinted towards the scene, towards the man, and tore him away from the woman, lashing out with a feral blow to the throat. The woman ran, and her fearful glance backwards tore the illusion. It wasn't Emily. Hurt and confusion masked Yumi's features, further clouding her mind. _How?_ Why did she think it was Emily? Emily was... The frustration, the anger, the sadness. A massive wave enveloped the shrinking island that she huddled on, her scream giving the water another thing to devour. The man stood and brandished the knife before charging her.

The expression 'seeing red' is often associated with rage or extreme brutality. That's all that she saw: red canvasing her world. She felt the pain in her hands and arms first, but that faded as she felt the man's flesh and bone. The flesh yielded, his bone cracked, his body fell, but she continued. Blood erupted from his mouth, flowing freely in tandem from his nose. Another beat from the heart, another blow to his head, another spurt of blood. Emily's shocked face flashed before her, drawing her savage assault to a halt. Her arms felt like someone had sliced every fiber, but the pain from her hands and wrists almost made her scream. Looking down showed her why. Her fingers were shattered, bone extruding her skin as her blood mixed with his. Her lower arms were black and purple, as if she had dunked them in paint.

The man was even worse. He breathed arrhythmically, blood bubbling from his mouth with each effort. His face was unrecognizable from the odd jaw angles and the teeth that lay strewn across the surrounding pavement. The side of his head was slightly concave, blood dribbling from one eye while both rolled backwards in his head. She felt something warm and looked towards his chest, fearing the worst. Her breath shuddered and sped up to compliment her newfound terror at what she had done. The man had at least four broken ribs, one of them piercing a lung. More and more of his life pooled in the parking garage, following the slight gradient of the pavement as if trying to escape her hatred. She fell backwards off of the man and was rewarded with an erratic cough and a fresh eruption of crimson from his mouth, coating the rest of his face and hiding him from view. Seconds later, after several desperate heaves, he lay still on the concrete. She felt more and more warmth spread down her legs while a small pool of urine gathered around her groin. She laid there shaking, not resisting when the police finally showed up, not even when they cuffed her apple-sized wrists. Her vision began to fade as she saw the faint silhouette of the detective she had met earlier. She could only make out the first part of his statement before the world fled her presence.

"Yumi, what have you done?"

* * *

The sentencing was quick. Yumi glanced down at her arms, noting the handcuffs and how loose they were. They knew that she could do nothing to escape her fate. The jury initially wanted to lock her up for a scathing ten years on account of the sheer brutality of the murder. However, after her breakdown in lockup and the following interview with the resident psychologist, they determined that she had suffered a severe psychotic break following extreme trauma. The court tentatively offered her treatment in a mental hospital for a single year, on the condition that her stay would be extended tenfold should her condition degrade any further. She accepted.

The first night was the prelude to hell, hell that she deserved. The occasional screams from those suffering more than her made sleeping impossible. Even when she managed to drift off, nightmares plagued every second. She couldn't get those damn images out of her head. As the sun rose and greeted her, warm light flooding in through the window, she clenched her teeth and sobbed into her pillow. Screaming, an explosion, gore, debris, blood. None of the nightmares feared the light, and now the man had joined in on her torment. It was only when she heard the door unlock that she noticed the clouds outside. The sun was all but obscured, a mirror image to what lingered within.

The stay itself improved over time; it was actually more comfortable than she expected. No padded cell, just a plain room with a single vase of flowers that sat atop a small desk. While the window helped, she found that her hour to walk around the small garden helped the most. The people that she had heard screaming in the middle of the night had left, probably moved to a more secure wing. Every couple of days she would attend a class about trauma or anger management, with a rather dull and dreary group therapy session on depression management acting as her weekly special. One of the orderlies, John, came to visit her more, claiming that she was one of his favorites. When she had questioned him about it, he shrugged and said "You're easily one of the most calm and easy patients that I have to tend to. It truly is the highlight of my day." With a sly smile, he walked out and locked the door. A few weeks passed, and she knew that winter was on its way. Most of the flowers had withered, the trees had long since shed their leaves. Snow had begun to fall, a soft yet thin blanket that embraced everything it could. They experimented with a closet's worth of medication, some of which either made her spend a day hugging her pillow or a couple of hours in the bathroom. They finally settled on a minor antipsychotic with an antidepressant chaser. It made her feel sluggish in the beginning, but it appeared to help over time. She decided to stay in her room for the winter once she overheard one of the orderlies telling John that there was a flu outbreak in one of the other wings. After all, her room had a heater and a window. She could manage.

* * *

The spring passed in a blur, the monotony beginning to take its toll. The same sessions, the same interviews, the same evaluations. The drugs had stabilized her, and now she simply grew bored of it all. She began to show it more and more in her classes, much to the irritation of the instructors. Finally, one day she heard the lock click back and saw the door swing open. John stood there with a slight aura of concern radiating from his eyes. "The head doctor would like to see you in his office. Can you manage?" Yumi knew that it wasn't patronizing, merely an expression of his curiosity. Yumi stood from her chair, placing her pencil on the desk. She had begun to write more and more. It started off as something to ease the powers that be, but it became yet another outlet. "Lead the way, John. It'll be fine."

Following him out of the room, she walked a familiar path down the bleak halls. They had started out as white, but she imagined that they had long since faded to this drab white, almost gray smearing that now decorated seemingly every corridor. They turned from the usual path into a windowless room that must have been the administrative office. John walked to the left and Yumi followed him. He knocked on the door and nodded to her before leaving, presumably to return to his duties. She heard a hearty voice through the oak door. "Enter!" She opened the door and found a rather nice office. An ornately-famed window practically glowed with the sheer volume of sunlight that it invited. The chairs were traditional leather, the shelves a deep oak with a variety of books and assorted items. A skull sat in one of the corner cases, the top surgically cut out. If not real, it was a very convincing fake. A variety of tools took up residence on a wide shelf above the others, some crude and ancient, others modern and potentially in use. The doctor caught her eye, looking at her with what could be considered a slight grin. "There's no need to worry, Ms. Ishiyama, such tools and practices would be highly unwarranted for you and your current issues." Yumi greeted him with a weak smile and a casual wave. "I was told that you wanted to see me?"

The doctor gestured to a chair across from his desk, which she took. The doctor sank into his exquisite leather chair and cleared his throat. "Ms. Ishiyama, my name is Doctor Eric Kounen. I am the head doctor here, as you probably guessed." He paused only to sigh slightly. She waited anxiously, wondering what this was about.

"Ms. Ishiyama, Yumi, I have what could be considered bad news. Your recovery here has been, quite frankly, phenomenal. It appears that the incident that gave you your trauma was the main source for your documented psychosis, nothing preexisting." He paused. She couldn't help herself. "Well then, what's the bad news?" She began to sweat. _Surely the court didn't change my sentence,_ she thought desperately.

He continued with a slight note of hesitation. "The bad news is that, by all means, you could be fit to return to society, to return to your public life. However, because of the court's ruling and unwillingness to accept our report that you're well enough to be released, you will have to stay for the full term of your sentence." The rising panic evaporated, leaving only disbelief. "This is what you wanted to tell me, that I have to stay a full year?"

He paused, looking solemn until she started laughing. His look was quickly replaced by one of incredulity. She managed to suppress her laughter, explaining with a smile. "Doctor, I was committed to stay for the full year from the beginning. I had no hope of any form of early release." Kounen smiled. "I'm glad to hear your acceptance on the matter. When I tell people that they can't leave yet, there's usually a much worse, more volatile reaction. They cannot wait to leave." He, again, paused, as if in a mental debate.

"Well, Ms. Ishiyama, knowing what you know, I don't believe that there is currently a reason to continue you daytime lockdown. Your initial assessment had you classified as a potential danger, hence why you have been in an isolation ward, but your continual therapy and general assessments show significant progress." He pulled a small glass from one of the cabinets, pouring the rich amber into it. "If you want, we can move you to the release ward where you can move freely during the day." He turned back to her, waiting patiently. She bit her lip, contemplating it. She could still have her own room and actually wander around during the day. She looked back towards the doctor, sensing that he was withholding something. That would have to be dealt with later. "Sure, that sounds nice."

She walked down the familiar route, through the twists and turns of the drab corridors, down the tiled stairs, all the while following John downstairs. The lower floor seemed slight brighter than the floor above, a calming vibe emitting from the halls. He turned left and she followed, stopping abruptly when he turned and unlocked a door. John simply nodded and walked back upstairs. Dismayed by the sudden dismissal, she walked into the room and sat her small box of things on the desk. The ground floor windows seemed larger and actually opened. There were still bars on the window, but they were smaller and more discreet. The room did seem brighter save for the ceiling, which was darkened by the downward cast of the glorious sun. She began unpacking what little she had, pondering the day's events. John wasn't hostile, but rather dismissive and distant. Maybe he was just sour that she would be out of his ward. The doctor was the more concerning of the two issues, however. _There's something that he's not telling me,_ she thought. Something involving me or my case. Pushing it out of her mind, she placed the box near the door and walked out. _I wonder what's for dinner_.

* * *

The doctor had finished his drink in a single gulp and was already through half of his second glass when a knock interrupted his thoughts. John entered the room, a blank stare on his face. "It's done. She's been moved to her new room." An extended silence stretched on as the seconds passed. "Do you know how this little project began, 'John'?" Kounen turned and placed his glass on the table. "Back in the 90's, there was this fanciful project known in the shadows as Carthage. The men in black suits didn't want people to know, but I knew. They came here, looking for potential candidates." John simply stood and stared, his face just as blank as the doctor snatched up his glass and downed the rest of the contents. "The project suddenly ended. No explanations, no stories, just a blank slate. A few months go by and suddenly I have you, overqualified in every way, applying for a lowly orderly position." The blank stare remained, but a spark of venom flickered in John's eyes. "Why would you do this to her? She is making progress, awaiting the end of her term-" Kounen cut him off with a raised hand, only drawing more of the venom from John's eyes.

"Let's not beat around the bush, 'John'. You're full of shit, I know that you joined my staff to observe, and now you're telling me that you don't know why?" A look of venom from the doctor surprised John, mainly because it matched his own. The doctor has some dirty secrets after all, he thought. Kounen turned back to face the window, loosening his tie as he did. "I was failing in grad school, struggling to keep up as the strain got to me. Then one morning, I wake up with a migraine that would kill most people, that should kill most people. I black out, waking up two weeks later in the medical wing, intubated and hooked up to everything you care to name. Next thing you know, all of the material was so easy. The questions and theories that crushed me were equivalent to mere paperweights. I graduated at the top of my class." Pouring the last little bit of amber into his glass, he looked back at John. "This has been rigged from the very beginning. The question is their endgame. They called me a few weeks ago, told me what to do. I don't like risking everything just to get my hands dirty, and that is where you come in."

* * *

Yumi had a strange dream that night. It was nothing but colors, like an ever-changing palette across every spectrum. It morphed continuously before ending abruptly, dumping her into a memory. It was her, years ago, back in Lyoko. She looked down at her hands, seeing the same outfit, the same gear. But the forest had changed. The overgrown vegetation now surrounding everything as the trees towered and twisted around a grey sky. It's as if the engine had changed, rendering things as close to reality as possible. She ran through the forest, leaping over pitfalls and dodging low-hanging branches. Finally, she stopped in terror. The towers had changed as well. What was once a metallic cylinder protruding from a mass now was a dilapidated structure, sections of wall falling off of the warped, rusted frame. Hazardous tendrils of lightning orange light protruded from the various gaps in the degrading tower, an ominous, fear-invoking sight. The mass around the base had grown into some mutated creature, parts throbbing or beating like the organs of a human. Then she noticed the heartbeat.

It thundered through the earth, the _thum-thum_ of its twisted heart disrupting the beat of hers. The heartbeat grew faster and faster, forcing her heart to do the same. The tendrils of light grew brighter until glowing, radiating with a profound foreign energy. One of the tendrils at the base of the structure lashed out, grabbing her by the neck. She could see pulses of energy rushing through the limb, rushing towards her, forcing themselves into her. Each wave felt like fire, squeezing her brain and heart to the point of agony. Surely she would burst under the pressure. Her mind rushed with thoughts and echoes, both those that were long repressed and those that were not her own. Her feelings for her friends, agony at the hands of faceless men, the tears of joy at Aelita's successful extraction, screaming as the needle was driven into her spine, the torn heart while clinging to Emily's corpse, the rage at the loss of a sister, the regret and terror as she beat him to death. The flow grew until it was a river, threatening to wipe away her consciousness. All of the voices, all of the people urged her to let go. After what seemed like an eternity, she relented.

This wasn't a dream, this was a nightmare.

One of her own making.

* * *

The sun had long since fallen. The rest of the support staff had gone home hours ago. Kounen remained in his office, his tie and coat abandoned in favor of no top button and rolled-up sleeves. He looked through the aged folder, wondering what could be done. The project had ended over a decade ago, there was nothing that mentioned plans for a continuation or a contingency. Suddenly he gets a call from a familiar voice regarding Yumi, telling him to proceed with a new procedure. When he asked, the most that he gleaned was that it was refined and evolved from the old procedure. A knock on the door yanked his attention, prompting him to place the file back in his cabinet before telling him to enter. John stepped back into his office, wearing a look that plainly wished for death, anyone's death. "What's her status?" The question was quite plain to John, but he took a moment to respond. "She is surprisingly stable. Comatose for now, but her brainwaves are concurrent with the traditional reports. So far, it appears that they were right." Kounen smirked in triumph, reaching for the crystalline bottle before remembering that it was empty. "Well well well, it appears that there is more to Ms. Ishiyama than what meets the eye. Do you have the report with you?" John wordlessly handed him a folder, marked with the designation F-2. The doctor read through it, his smile dropping along with his jaw. "This can't be right. She's receptive to all eight of the preliminary waves?" John nodded. "I witnessed it myself." Kounen tossed the file on his desk. "Well, I pity the poor girl-" But the rest was cut off by John as he lashed out with his arm and seized him by the neck. He had enough. "Maybe it's time that I update you?"

John tossed Kounen into one of his own chairs before drawing a silenced pistol. _A Walther? How stereotypical._ Kounen drew his focus back to the man's words, for he feared that it would not be in his best interest to miss them. "You should know goddamn well why I am here. However, in case you still haven't caught on, allow me to enlighten you. I _am_ the contingency plan. Should you get out of line, go public, or do anything else that risks exposure or disruption then I am authorized to sweep you under the rug." The silence was brief, allowed to continue long enough for the doctor to swallow his anxiety. "This is the beginning of a new version, one that's much more efficient than your crude work."

The doctor's outrage overpowered his fear. "Crude?! Nothing had ever been done in such a field! It was a brand new frontier of science, something that could pave the way for much more than just their little pet project!" John adjusted his pistol, aiming directly at the doctor's head, cutting Kounen off mid-flow. "Despite making me your 'right hand man' you have always tried my patience, and even now there is no exception. You have two choices. I can kill you and have another doctor take your place, or you can take this." He tossed a vial into Kounen's lap. "Eric, I have never really enjoyed your company and would very much enjoy the pleasure. However, if you take this then I am ordered to hold off." The vial gleamed with a slightly turquoise hue. "I guess you could call this round two. This is what they gave you back in that touching story of grad school." He paused to enjoy the shock of that statement. "We do not know the extended effects of its use, however, so you are given this choice. You either die by my hand or become another one of our 'pet projects', as you put it." The cards were on the table, now will he fold? John watched as the doctor relented. He opened the vial and drank its contents, down to the last drop. Seconds later, he dropped the vial and cradled his head, falling from the chair. John smirked and crouched by him as he began to seize. "I forgot to mention, this is an amplified version of the formula. Its effects are much, much worse." He stood as the doctor went into a full-body seizure, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. John pocketed the pistol and walked out of the room, stopping at the door.

"Good luck, doctor."

* * *

 _What, did you think that this was over?_

 _Work, life, etc. I write when I can, all I ask is to be patient._

 _This isn't up to my usual standards, but I figured I might as well get something out there._

 _As usual, reviews are welcome._

 _-JJA_


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